The Bishop Murder Case

by S. S. Van Dine

  “Don’t forget, sir,” Vance reminded him, “that the black bishop was the symbol of his failure. It represented the wreckage of his hopes. Less potent factors have driven men to take their own lives.”

  A few minutes later Burke informed us that the medical examiner had arrived. Taking leave of the professor, we descended again to the archery room, where Doctor Doremus was busy with his examination of Pardee’s body.

  He looked up as we entered and waved one hand perfunctorily. His usual jovial manner was gone.

  “When’s this business going to stop?” he grumbled. “I don’t like the atmosphere round here. Murders—death from shock—suicides. Enough to give anyone the creeps. I’m going to get a nice uneventful job in a slaughter house.”

  “We believe,” said Markham, “that this is the end.”

  Doremus blinked. “So! That’s it, is it?—the Bishop suicides after running the town ragged. Sounds reasonable. Hope you’re right.” He again bent over the body and, unflexing the fingers, tossed the revolver to the table.

  “For your armory, Sergeant.”

  Heath dropped the weapon in his pocket.

  “How long’s he been dead, Doc?”

  “Oh, since midnight, or thereabouts. Maybe earlier, maybe later.—Any other fool questions?”

  Heath grinned. “Is there any doubt about it being suicide?”

  Doremus glared passionately at the sergeant.

  “What does it look like? A black-hand bombing?” Then he became professional. “The weapon was in his hand. Powder marks on the temple. Hole the right size for the gun and in the right place. Position of the body natural. Can’t see anything suspicious.—Why? Got any doubts?”

  It was Markham who answered. “To the contrary, Doctor. Everything from our angle of the case points to suicide.”

  “It’s suicide all right, then. I’ll check up a little further, though.—Here, Sergeant, give me a hand.”

  When Heath had helped to lift Pardee’s body to the divan for a more detailed examination, we went to the drawing room, where we were joined shortly by Arnesson.

  “What’s the verdict?” he asked, dropping into the nearest chair. “I suppose there’s no question that the chap committed the act himself.”

  “Why should you raise the point, Mr. Arnesson?” Vance parried.

  “No reason. An idle comment. Lots of queer things going on hereabouts.”

  “Oh, obviously.” Vance blew a wreath of smoke upward. “No, the medical examiner seems to think there’s no doubt in the matter. Did Pardee, by the by, impress you as bent on self-destruction last night?”

  Arnesson considered. “Hard to say,” he concluded. “He was never a gay soul. But suicide?…I don’t know. However, you say there’s no question about it, so there you are.”

  “Quite, quite. And how does this new situation fit into your formula?”

  “Dissipates the whole equation, of course. No more need for speculation.” Despite his words, he appeared uncertain. “What I can’t understand,” he added, “is why he should choose the archery room. Lot of space in his own house for a felo-de-se.”

  “There was a convenient gun in the archery room,” suggested Vance. “And that reminds me: Sergeant Heath would like to have Miss Dillard identify the weapon, as a matter of form.”

  “That’s easy. Where is it?”

  Heath handed it to him, and he started from the room.

  “Also”—Vance halted him—“you might ask Miss Dillard if she kept playing cards in the archery room.”

  Arnesson returned in a few minutes and informed us that the gun was the one which had been in the toolchest drawer, and that not only were playing cards kept in the table drawer of the archery room but that Pardee knew of their presence there.

  Doctor Doremus appeared soon afterward and iterated his conclusion that Pardee had shot himself.

  “That’ll be my report,” he said. “Can’t see any way out of it. To be sure, lots of suicides are fakes—but that’s your province. Nothing in the least suspicious here.”

  Markham nodded with undisguised satisfaction.

  “We’ve no reason to question your findings, Doctor. In fact, suicide fits perfectly with what we already know. It brings this whole Bishop orgy to a logical conclusion.”

  He got up like a man from whose shoulders a great burden had been lifted. “Sergeant, I’ll leave you to arrange for the removal of the body for the autopsy; but you’d better drop in at the Stuyvesant Club later. Thank heaven today is Sunday! It gives us time to turn round.”

  That night at the club Vance and Markham and I sat alone in the lounge room. Heath had come and gone, and a careful statement had been drawn up for the press announcing Pardee’s suicide and intimating that the Bishop case was thereby closed. Vance had said little all day. He had refused to offer any suggestion as to the wording of the official statement, and had appeared reluctant even to discuss the new phase of the case. But now he gave voice to the doubts that had evidently been occupying his mind.

  “It’s too easy, Markham—much too easy. There’s an aroma of speciousness about it. It’s perfectly logical, d’ ye see, but it’s not satisfyin’. I can’t exactly picture our Bishop terminating his debauch of humor in any such banal fashion. There’s nothing witty in blowin’ one’s brain out—it’s rather commonplace, don’t y’ know. Shows a woeful lack of originality. It’s not worthy of the artificer of the Mother Goose murders.”

  Markham was disgruntled.

  “You yourself explained how the crimes accorded with the psychological possibilities of Pardee’s mentality; and to me it appears highly reasonable that, having perpetrated his gruesome jokes and come to the end of his rope, he should have done away with himself.”

  “You’re probably right,” sighed Vance. “I haven’t any coruscatin’ arguments to combat you with. Only, I’m disappointed. I don’t like anticlimaxes, especially when they don’t jibe with my idea of the dramatist’s talent. Pardee’s death at this moment is too deuced neat—it clears things up too tidily. There’s too much utility in it, and too little imagination.”

  Markham felt that he could afford to be tolerant. “Perhaps his imagination was exhausted on the murders. His suicide might be regarded merely as a lowering of the curtain when the play was over. In any event, it was by no means an incredible act. Defeat and disappointment and discouragement—a thwarting of all one’s ambitions—have constituted cause for suicide since time immemorial.”

  “Exactly. We have a reasonable motive, or explanation, for his suicide, but no motive for the murders.”

  “Pardee was in love with Belle Dillard,” argued Markham, “and he probably knew that Robin was a suitor for her hand. Also, he was intensely jealous of Drukker.”

  “And Sprigg’s murder?”

  “We have no data on that point.”

  Vance shook his head. “We can’t separate the crimes as to motive. They all sprang from one underlying impulse: they were actuated by a single urgent passion.”

  Markham sighed impatiently. “Even if Pardee’s suicide is unrelated to the murders, we’re at a dead end, figuratively and literally.”

  “Yes, yes. A dead end. Very distressin’. Consolin’ for the police, though. It lets them out—for a while, anyway. But don’t misinterpret my vagaries. Pardee’s death is unquestionably related to the murders. Rather intimate relationship, too, I’d say.”

  Markham took his cigar slowly from his mouth and scrutinized Vance for several moments.

  “Is there any doubt in your mind,” he asked, “that Pardee committed suicide?”

  Vance hesitated before answering. “I could bear to know,” he drawled, “why that house of cards collapsed so readily when I deliberately leaned against the table—”

  “Yes?”

  “—and why it didn’t topple over when Pardee’s head and shoulders fell forward on the table after he’d shot himself.”

  “Nothing to that,” said Markham. “The first jar may have loosen
ed the cards—” Suddenly his eyes narrowed. “Are you implying that the card house was built after Pardee was dead?”

  “Oh, my dear fellow! I’m not indulgin’ in implications. I’m merely givin’ tongue to my youthful curiosity, don’t y’ know.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  A Startling Discovery

  (Monday, April 25; 8.30 p.m.)

  EIGHT DAYS WENT by. The Drukker funeral was held in the little house on 76th Street, attended only by the Dillards and Arnesson and a few men from the university who came to pay a last tribute of respect to a scientist for whose work they had a very genuine admiration.

  Vance and I were at the house on the morning of the funeral when a little girl brought a small cluster of spring flowers she had picked herself, and asked Arnesson to give them to Drukker. I almost expected a cynical response from him, and was surprised when he took the flowers gravely and said in a tone almost tender, “I’ll give them to him at once, Madeleine. And Humpty Dumpty thanks you for remembering him.” When the child had been led away by her governess, he turned to us. “She was Drukker’s favorite… Funny fellow. Never went to the theater. Detested travel. His only recreation was entertaining youngsters.”

  I mention this episode because, in spite of its seeming unimportance, it was to prove one of the most vital links in the chain of evidence that eventually cleared up, beyond all question of doubt, the problem of the Bishop murders.

  The death of Pardee had created a situation almost unique in the annals of modern crime. The statement given out by the district attorney’s office had only intimated that there was a possibility of Pardee’s being guilty of the murders. Whatever Markham may have personally believed, he was far too honorable and just to cast any direct doubt on another’s character without overwhelming proofs. But the wave of terror arising from these strange murders had reached such proportions that he could not, in view of the duty he owed to the community, refrain from saying that he believed the case to be closed. Thus, while no open accusation of guilt was made against Pardee, the Bishop murders were no longer regarded as a source of menace to the city, and a sigh of relief went up from all quarters.

  In the Manhattan Chess Club there was probably less discussion of the case than anywhere else in New York. The members felt perhaps that the club’s honor was in some way involved. Or there may have been a sense of loyalty toward a man who had done as much for chess as Pardee. But whatever the cause of the club’s avoidance of the subject, the fact remained that its members attended, almost to a man, Pardee’s funeral. I could not help admiring this tribute to a fellow chess player, for, whatever his personal acts, he had been one of the great sustaining patrons of the royal and ancient game to which they were devoted.*

  Markham’s first official act on the day after Pardee’s death was to secure Sperling’s release. The same afternoon the police department moved all its records of the Bishop murders to the file marked “shelved cases” and withdrew the guards from the Dillard house. Vance protested mildly against this latter step; but in view of the fact that the medical examiner’s postmortem report had substantiated in every particular the theory of suicide, there was little that Markham could do in the matter. Furthermore, he was thoroughly convinced that the death of Pardee had terminated the case; and he scoffed at Vance’s wavering doubts.

  During the week following the finding of Pardee’s body Vance was restive and more distrait than usual. He attempted to interest himself in various matters but without any marked success. He showed signs of irritability; and his almost miraculous equanimity seemed to have deserted him. I got the impression that he was waiting for something to happen. His manner was not exactly expectant, but there was a watchfulness in his attitude amounting at times almost to apprehension.

  On the day following the Drukker funeral Vance called on Arnesson, and on Friday night accompanied him to a performance of Ibsen’s Ghosts —a play which, I happened to know, he disliked. He learned that Belle Dillard had gone away for a month’s visit to the home of a relative in Albany. As Arnesson explained, she had begun to show the effects of all she had been through and needed a change of scene. The man was plainly unhappy over her absence and confided to Vance that they had planned to be married in June. Vance also learned from him that Mrs. Drukker’s will had left everything to Belle Dillard and the professor in the event of her son’s death—a fact which appeared to interest Vance unduly.

  Had I known, or even suspected, what astounding and terrible things were hanging over us that week, I doubt if I could have stood the strain. For the Bishop murder case was not ended. The climactic horror was still to come; but even that horror, terrific and staggering as it proved, was only a shadow of what it might have been had not Vance reasoned the case out to two separate conclusions, only one of which had been disposed of by Pardee’s death. It was this other possibility, as I learned later, that had kept him in New York, vigilant and mentally alert.

  Monday, April 25, was the beginning of the end. We were to dine with Markham at the Bankers Club and go afterward to a performance of Die Meistersinger*; but we did not witness the triumphs of Walther that night. I noticed that when we met Markham in the rotunda of the Equitable Building, he seemed troubled; and we were no more than seated in the club grill when he told us of a phone call he had received from Professor Dillard that afternoon.

  “He asked me particularly to come to see him tonight,” Markham explained, “and when I tried to get out of it, he became urgent. He made a point of the fact that Arnesson would be away the entire evening, and said that a similar opportunity might not present itself until it was too late. I asked him what he meant by that; but he refused to explain, and insisted that I come to his house after dinner. I told him I’d let him know if I could make it.”

  Vance had listened with the most intense interest.

  “We must go there, Markham. I’ve been rather expecting a call of this kind. It’s possible we may at last find the key to the truth.”

  “The truth about what?”

  “Pardee’s guilt.”

  Markham said no more, and we ate our dinner in silence.

  At half past eight we rang the bell of the Dillard house, and were taken by Pyne direct to the library.

  The old professor greeted us with nervous reserve.

  “It’s good of you to come, Markham,” he said, without rising. “Take a chair and light a cigar. I want to talk to you—and I want to take my time about it. It’s very difficult… ” His voice trailed off as he began filling his pipe.

  We settled ourselves and waited. A sense of expectancy invaded me for no apparent reason, except perhaps that I caught some of the radiations of the professor’s obviously distraught mood.

  “I don’t know just how to broach the subject,” he began, “for it has to do, not with physical facts, but with the invisible human consciousness. I’ve struggled all week with certain vague ideas that have been forcing themselves upon me; and I see no way to rid myself of them but by talking with you… ”

  He looked up hesitantly.

  “I preferred to discuss these ideas with you when Sigurd was not present, and as he has gone tonight to see Ibsen’s Pretenders —his favorite play, by the way—I took the opportunity to ask you here.”

  “What do these ideas concern?” asked Markham.

  “Nothing specifically. As I have said, they’re very vague, but they have nevertheless grown fairly insistent… So insistent, in fact,” he added, “that I thought it best to send Belle away for a while. It’s true that she was in a tortured state of mind as a result of all these tragedies, but my real reason for shipping her north was that I was beset by intangible doubts.”

  “Doubts?” Markham leaned forward. “What sort of doubts?”

  Professor Dillard did not reply at once.

  “Let me answer that question by asking another,” he countered presently. “Are you wholly satisfied in your mind that the situation in regard to Pardee is exactly as it appears?”


  “You mean the authenticity of his suicide?”

  “That and his presumptive culpability.”

  Markham settled back contemplatively. “Are you not wholly satisfied?” he asked.

  “I can’t answer that question.” Professor Dillard spoke almost curtly. “You have no right to ask me. I merely wanted to be sure that the authorities, having all the data in their hands, were convinced that this terrible affair was a closed book.” A look of deep concern came over his face. “If I knew that to be a fact, it would help me to repulse the vague misgivings that have haunted me day and night for the past week.”

  “And if I were to say that I am not satisfied?”

  The old professor’s eyes took on a distant, distressed look. His head fell slightly forward, as if some burden of sorrow had suddenly weighed him down. After several moments he lifted his shoulders and drew a deep breath.

  “The most difficult thing in this world,” he said, “is to know where one’s duty lies, for duty is a mechanism of the mind, and the heart is forever stepping in and playing havoc with one’s resolutions. Perhaps I did wrong to ask you here, for, after all, I have only misty suspicions and nebulous ideas to go on. But there was the possibility that my mental uneasiness was based on some deep hidden foundation of whose existence I was unaware… Do you see what I mean?” Evasive as were his words, there was no doubt as to the disturbing mien of the shadowy image that lurked at the back of his mind.

  Markham nodded sympathetically. “There is no reason whatever to question the findings of the medical examiner.” He made the statement in a forced matter-of-fact voice. “I can understand how the proximity of these tragedies might have created an atmosphere conducive to doubts. But I think you need have no further misgivings.”

  “I sincerely hope you’re right,” the professor murmured; but it was clear he was not satisfied. “Suppose, Markham—” he began, and then stopped. “Yes, I hope you’re right,” he repeated.